


must mean it's the low season

by ssilverarrowss



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Euro 2016, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Poland NT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7352812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssilverarrowss/pseuds/ssilverarrowss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a hard game, a low-scoring one, taken all the way to a shootout, and though they played better than they had in weeks, theyʼre leaving France without having scraped the semi-final.</p>
            </blockquote>





	must mean it's the low season

**Author's Note:**

> Thomas calls Robert in the aftermath of the Poland vs. Portugal match. Iʼm still bitter bc my boys deserved better. Title from 'Low Season' by Ritual.

Robert stands under the spray of the showerhead for far too long, motionless as the water cascades over his head and down the length of his spine, forehead pressed against the cold tiles, head hung in defeat. 

He doesnʼt know how long heʼs been there: minutes have started to feel like hours, each as mercilessly sluggish as the last. The scorching water leaves his skin red and raw, like flesh peeling away from the bone, but he canʼt bring himself to move. 

He feels hollow somehow, eyes screwed shut, a grimace etched into the lines of his face as his fingers dance across his temples, trying to brush away the throbbing headache blossoming in his skull. His muscles ache and a groan slips past his gritted teeth, the pain and fatigue of the match finally catching up with him and coiling around every muscle, every bone, and heʼs tired, so tired, and  _heavy_ with weariness.

When he steps out from the shower, cold air assaulting his upper body, he feels  _disconnected_ , unsettled in his skin. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and notes that he looks older somehow, much older than his twenty seven years, eyes framed with red, still feeling the bitter sting of tears.

Heʼs enveloped in the stillness of his hotel room and itʼs quiet, so  _quiet_ that itʼs disconcerting. He finds himself missing the carefree atmosphere, ever-present sounds of chatter and the echo of his teammatesʼ laughter filling the hotel corridors. Now there is nothing left, nothing but the empty suitcase lying open on top of his bed, serving as a painful reminder of failure:  _go home, your time is over._

Dinner had been a silent affair, noiseless except for the occasional scraping of forks against china as they miserably pushed their food around their plates.

The guilt sits heavy and oppressive in the pit of Robertʼs stomach, and it feels like heʼs suffocating with every scenario that unfolds inside his brain, every  _I couldʼve scored more, I―I shouldʼve done more._

Robertʼs eyelids flutter and heʼs _drained_ _._ They all are.

It was a hard game, a low-scoring one, taken all the way to a shootout, and though they played better than they had in weeks, theyʼre leaving France without having scraped the semi-final.

A hard game, but one they couldʼvewon nonetheless. Shouldʼve, maybe, and Robertʼs fingernails dig crescent moons into the skin of his palms at the thought.

He opens his eyes slowly as the shrill ringing of his phone disrupts the quiet, flashing and buzzing and vying for his attention, and the noise is unpleasantly jarring against the backdrop of stillness and silence. He glances at the caller ID and contemplates letting it go to voicemail before reluctantly swiping his thumb across the screen with a sigh on his lips. He tucks his phone into the junction between his ear and shoulder and waits.

“Congratulations.” He hears the hint of a smile in Thomasʼs voice, tinny and somewhat distorted but unmistakably familiar.

“We lost.” Robert says evenly, voice hoarse from disuse and really, itʼs the first time heʼs said it out loud. They lost. Itʼs  _over._  

Suddenly Thomasʼs inexplicable enthusiasm becomes increasingly aggravating. 

“Good game.” Thomas says simply. 

Robert lets out a laugh, clipped and perfunctory, and Thomas can hear the self-deprecation in his tone. 

“We still lost. And in the end, thatʼs the part people remember.”

“You still played well. That goal wasnʼt nothing.”

Robert shakes his head in silent disagreement, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“It doesnʼt really matter now, though, does it? Weʼre going home.”

Somewhere in a hotel room in Bordeaux, Thomas bites at the inside of his cheek because he  _knows_ how hard Robert can be on himself, knows the way the guilt clings to him, the way it festers like poison under the skin.

“It wasnʼt your mistake.” Thomas murmurs.

“But it  _is_ my team.” Robert says. 

 _You wouldnʼt understand_ _,_ Robert thinks but doesnʼt say, biting at his knuckles instead.

Thomas thinks the same thing though, and he knows he doesnʼt _get it_ like Robert does. Heʼs not a captain, heʼs never  _been_ a captain, not in the way Robert has, so he doesnʼt quite understand the responsibility, the pressure that comes with the territory. And maybe he never will. But he  _does_ understand Robert.

“And youʼre a great captain whoʼs led his team further than theyʼd hoped to get. You’ve had a good run.  _Thatʼs_ on you.”

“What good is a captain who canʼt lead his team to victory?”

“Lewy―” Thomas starts, but falters, because thereʼs nothing to say.

“Weʼre the  _almost_ team, Thomas. Almost qualified, almost won, almost didnʼt miss a penalty. Itʼs frustrating.” 

“I know―”

“Do you? Youʼre the world champions with a good shot at winning the tournament. What are we? The permanent underdogs. Better than some, but never good  _enough._ ” Robert bites out, throat clicking.

There’s a long moment of silence that follows, an empty space that Robert knows that he’s supposed to fill with remorse. He exhales slowly, air scraping past his lungs, letting out a breath he didnʼt realise he was holding.

“Shit, Iʼm―I didnʼt.” He amends in lieu of an apology.

Thomas nods.

“Maybe. But that doesnʼt mean you didnʼt do a good job. You play well, you know that. All of you.”

“Yeah.” Robert agrees. “Iʼm proud of them.”

“Iʼm proud of  _you._ ” Thomas says, and the corners of Robertʼs lips curve upward infinitesimally at the thought of Thomasʼs toothy grin. “And―” He pauses, hesitating. “Donʼt be too hard on him.” He adds quietly, dim memories of missed penalties and lost Champion Leagues swimming through his brain.

Robert swallows, dipping his head, stomach churning with regret at his cold and distant demeanour, and makes a note to exchange a few comforting words with his teammate.

“Thomas.” Robertʼs eyelids flutter again, feeling heavy as he tries to blink away the exhaustion. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” Thomas says, the tiniest smile audible in his voice again, and Robert hums.

 _Iʼll see you soon,_ Thomas doesnʼt say, aware of the implication, but somehow he feels Robert understands.

“Yeah.” Robert says softly, and Thomas can hear the lilt of tiredness in his voice.

A pause, and then: “Score something, won’t you?” And laughter spills from Thomas’s lips, unbidden, relief flooding his ribcage because _that’s_ his Lewy.

And Robert is glad for Thomas too, because he’s become this warm, solid presence in Robert’s life that easily keeps him grounded. 

“You did great tonight, Lewy. Donʼt forget that.” Thomas offers softly as a parting gesture.

Robertʼs not sure if he believes Thomasʼs words: he doesnʼt  _feel_ proud. He feels broken, raw, tired. Still though, his lips twist into a small smile at the sound of Thomasʼs voice. 

He makes a soft noise that sounds like affirmation before ending the call, leaving him alone in the silence. 

Robert drags a hand through his hair and palms his eyelids as sleep threatens to pull him under. The weight of failure still sits heavy and abrasive under his skin, like a brick in the ribcage, but he feels lighter, somehow. Calmer, maybe. He wonders if this is what closure feels like.

He decides he doesnʼt need to know.


End file.
